If I wake and I am not beside you
in other words     if I wake and you

are not there     then and only then
the blackness will descend and I

will shudder with something that is
neither cold nor fear     I will wrap

myself in blankets and remain
unwashed     in the funk of myself

and never leave the house     and I
will mark myself with ink     all over

my body     a narrative of darkness
written on the skin     a last will

and testament for the final
distribution of my sickness     feeling

in the air around me the vibration
of phone calls never made     feeling

from the ground beneath my feet
the rippling of rivers as yet unswum

and I don’t even want to imagine
what it might have been that got us

into this situation     so I dot 
and cross my remaining syllables 

and sell as artwork the close-up 
photography of my scripted flesh  

inked and feverish     as another 
moonless night encroaches.